I peered through the living room’s ceiling-height window and fixed my gaze on the horizon. The ocean had always been my place to find serenity, but it seemed no matter how long I stared, I remained as apprehensive as the moment I started looking.

I turned around, wearing my best example of a stoic expression. “There’s always what we desire and what we’ll settle for. Historically, these two are measurably different. In this case, however, they’re so close to one another it’s scary.”

Seated at his futuristic turquoise leather sectional, he sipped his scotch. “Scary? I don’t like the sound of that. We’ve been in negotiations for a year, Mr. Reynolds. A year. Niches come and they go. All I can do is hope this one remains longer than it takes us to reach an agreement. If not, we’re both screwed.”

“Which would you prefer?” I asked. “My desire or the bottom line? The bottom line isn’t negotiable.”

He set his scotch on the end table and met my gaze. “Give me the bottom line.”

He was in his mid-sixties and wore his shoulder-length gray hair slicked back against his scalp. His feet were bare and tanned, as was his face. Dressed in off-white linen pants and a light blue button-down linen shirt, he looked the part of the eccentric billionaire that he was.

I was wearing faded jeans, weathered leather boots, and a new wife beater. My thirty-year-old Harley was parked aside his Guards Red Porsche GT3 in front of his twenty-foot-high stone fountain, leaking two drops of oil with each passing second.

I’d been to prison twice, killed more men than he had standing guard at the front of his mansion, and rode with what was quickly becoming recognized as SoCal’s most notorious outlaw motorcycle club.

Yet.

A simple negotiation with him had my stomach in knots.

I clenched my jaw and shot him a stern glare. When he broke my gaze, I knew I had him right where I wanted.

“Three and a half million, seven percent of revenue, a 1971 SS Chevelle, and a place at the--” At a loss for words, I wagged my finger at him, hoping the week’s clutter escaped me before I made a fool of myself. “Whatever you call that thing. The opening. At the opening. A place at the opening for all fellas and their Ol’ Ladies.”

He chuckled a dry laugh and reached for his scotch. “Did you say a 1971 Chevelle?”

“An SS Chevelle. There’s a difference. And not some rust-bucket. It’s got to be restored. With a big block and a four speed.”

He lifted the rim of the glass to the tip of his nose and inhaled a shallow breath. After closing his eyes for a few seconds, he opened them and stood. “Non-negotiable?”

I folded my arms in front of my chest. “I won’t budge.”

He sipped his scotch, transferred the glass to his left hand, and extended his right. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Reynolds.”

I shook his hand. “I was sure we’d reach an agreement if we took time to meet.”

“I had my reservations,” he said. “A year’s a long time in this industry.”

“I apologize for the delays. It’s been hectic for the last nine months.”

“I can only imagine.” He arched an eyebrow. “Color preference for the car?”

“Red. With white stripes.”

“And, how many tickets? I have a gut feeling it’ll be a packed house.”

“Twenty-four.” I no more than spoke and I had to correct myself. “Make it twenty-three. We just buried one of our men.”

“I heard.” He lowered his chin. “My condolences.”

“He was a good man.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“Is it too late to add something?”

His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Depends on what it is.”

“Can you mention him? You know. At the beginning? Or the end?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

I offered him a nod of appreciation.

“I’ll have a contract for you to sign as soon as it makes it through legal. Let’s say 30 days.”

I shrugged. “Handshake’s good for me.”

He shook his head and then chuckled lightly. “You’re one of a kind, Mr. Reynolds.”

“No,” I said. “I’ve got a handful of brothers that are like carbon copies. You’ll meet them at that thing. The opening.”

“I look forward to it.”

I glanced at my watch. “Well, I’ve got to get. Last thing I need is to get one of LA’s finest on me for not having working turn signals. It’s an hour and a half back to Oceanside.”

He extended his hand. “I’ll have Trent show you out.”

I shook his hand and turned toward the door.

After I’d gone half the distance to where Trent was standing, Freeman cleared his throat. I paused and glanced over my shoulder.

“A premier, Mr. Reynolds. It’s called a premier.”